Stagnant Stream
by Gossamer Nightmare
Summary: His death brings about a new life, an awareness of the one that’s been there all along.


Stagnant Stream

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**A/N:** Hey-lo! I wanted to try my hand and FrUk, as I love that pairing, and feel as though I've had enough UKUS to go around. Also, this seemed a very tragic and very good idea…one of my friends who I go to for plot advice called me: "cruel, unusual, and ridiculously awesome". Is that a good thing? I'd hope.

This is an AU, and placed in a college-like setting. They all go to the same University, that's all that really matters.

**Rating: **T, due to coarse language. I should really write a K-rated story some time…

**Pairing:** FrUk, with past UKUS (not even hints or being mentioned—it's there, and it'll hit you pretty hard)

**Summary: **His death brings about a new life, an awareness of the one that's been there all along.

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**When the door of happiness closes, another opens. But often times we look so long at the closed door that we don't see the one which has been opened for us.**

**-Unknown**

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_The day was long and seemed to have worn him out. His last class, thankfully, was Study Hall—the teacher kind enough to let you sit near friends. Unfortunately, he knew no one at this school. Since he had transferred two years ago, not one person had ever come close to becoming semi-friendly with him. So, heaving a great sigh, Arthur sat in the furthest corner near the window, in the front row. No one would bother with him._

_He couldn't blame them, though—some had tried. It was his personality, he suspected. His snarky, stuffy attitude. 'Or my eyebrows,' they furrowed at this thought._

_Due to this attitude problem of his, many left him to be among friends they'd known for far longer. The school had labeled him as "dry and difficult". Arthur huffed and opened his book with a snap of the flimsy yellowed pages. The words upon the paper danced within his mind, enticing him, drawing him further into the story…he was nearly lost, just the way he liked it, among the jungle the author painted in black ink, not to turn back until the end of sixth period—_

"_Heya!"_

_Arthur nearly jumped from his seat, slamming his book shut rather loudly. Many eyes turned to look at the disruption of the quiet chit-chat, most turning away once they saw it was just __**Kirkland**__, as could be expected. Two pairs of bright blue eyes lingered upon him, one turning back as their owners shifted away, another remaining steadily upon him._

"_It's nice to meet'cha. Alfred F. Jones," he holds out his hand to shake Arthur's. Reluctantly, the Brit reaches out to shake hands with him. "What's your name?"_

"_Arthur Kirkland," as other's say, he is sure his tone is dry. Most would look disheartened, but the tall blond—Alfred, he had called himself—had only grinned wider, dropped his binders and books onto the unoccupied desk to the side, and sat in the desk just in front of Arthur's, turning around so that he straddled the seat and looked directly at him._

"_Sitting over here all by yourself? Well, Arthur, that's just not __**right**__. I can't leave you like that! Besides," his grin widened, immaculate and bright. Arthur believes he must use bleach in order to get them that perfect shade of white. "You look pretty awesome. From now on? We're friends."_

Arthur reluctantly moves from his bed, silencing the alarm clock with its angry red numbers glowing bright bright bright against the pitch darkness of his room. He sighs. There is still an hour, he muses, to sleep more. But he is not tired. Rather, he turns in bed to look at the space in bed next to his own. Empty. Cold. 'He's gone,' Arthur reminds himself, reaching out a hand to touch the space. A stinging cold seems to catch his body on fire and knock the wind from his lungs. 'And it hurts to even think I can pretend he's still there.

"Good morning," Arthur flicks the covers from his body, folds them neatly back in place. He remembers how he never made the bed when it was his turn, so Arthur always had to, every day, no matter what… "Breakfast." Arthur shuffles down the stairs, suppressing a wide yawn. It makes his eyes water. He dabs at them with his wrist, but does nothing more.

A bowl of cereal. 'Boring,' he thinks, 'like me without him there? Yes, that just about sums it up, right?' Arthur knows he could never stomach the contents. So why did he pour not one bowl, but two? Why was there another just across from his own, left equally untouched, yet somehow different?

'Because there's no one across from me to tell me that I'm being ridiculous, and that they won't eat unless I do, so I'd better, before he complains all day about not getting anything to eat. Oh, and blaming it on me, though it was his choice in the first place.'

The cereal is _his_ favorite. Arthur would rather have toast, but to delight the other, he would eat his favorite cereal (though it wouldn't stop him from complaining about how ridiculously sugary and unhealthy it was, not to mention immature). 'I should just get rid of the damn stuff.' He stands, taking both bowls and washing them out in the sink, contents slipping down the garbage disposal. A switch on the wall grinds it up with a low purr, stops when it is flicked back to its resting position. This was his job in the mornings too, wasn't it? Taking care of the dishes once they've finished eating. Arthur chooses to ignore the painful throb in his heart, even as memories slowly flood the gate he'd been holding shut all morning, since his dreams of their time together…

_Arthur sat in the lunchroom, alone, as usual. He ate in silence, with loud chatter about him—the clatter of trays, the high voices of teens socializing, the occasional blow of the whistle from the nearby gymnasium, signaling those unlucky enough to have last lunch after physical education to keep moving, keep running along the same boring track…_

"_Hey, Arthur!" Once again, Arthur is startled, jumping ever so slightly from his seat. It's enough where Alfred notices and laughs quietly. He glares at Alfred as the loud teen sits next to him, grinning. "Why are you sitting all alone?"_

_He feels one pair of blue eyes watching him, but there are two, really—one is steady and has an undeniable, attention-grabbing presence; the other is subtle and crafty, slipping away the instant you suspect it—and stiffens, glare darkening. "We've already discussed this. No one likes me, Alfred."_

"_Well, that's not true," Alfred reasoned, "because __**I**__ like you. I thought we already discussed that, too?"_

"_Alfred, quit being generous," Arthur snarls. "We've barely even talked!"_

"_And that's why I like you! We make a connection. I feel like I've known you for most of my life."_

_Arthur quiets down, mulls this over in his head, sending occasional glances over to Alfred. It takes some time before he replies, "…Do you really feel that way?"_

_Alfred nods enthusiastically._

"_In that case," Arthur smiles slightly, "It's good to have at least __**one**__ friend."_

_Even if he were to argue often with this friend in the few months of their friendship, they would be happy arguments he'd love to relive._

Arthur shakes his head, checks his watch. "Oh, bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, stumbling up the stairs. Quickly, he showers, dries his hair, and pulls the crisp suit from its protective traveling bag. The buttons are difficult to get on with his fingers. He finds himself cursing often, scratching himself on occasion. He'd have to clip his nails soon. With a nostalgic sigh, he looks into the bathroom mirror.

The suit reminds him of the last year they spent as highschoolers.

"_Damn it," Alfred groans, attempting to button up his shirt. "I hate this! Augh! Arthur, do it for me!" He turns to face the Brit with his dress shirt's buttons done up in vary holes. Arthur heaves a heavy sigh._

"_Are you an idiot?" he asks, rolls his eyes, but gestures the American forward anyhow. "Come here. I'll fix it for you, clueless twat."_

"_Thanks, Arthur!" Alfred chirps as he moves forward._

_Arthur licks his lips as he undoes the buttons of Alfred's shirt, revealing toned chest he simply wanted to reach out and touch, to kiss and lick and claim as his own—he had obviously been staring for too long, as Alfred cleared his throat and cast upon him a funny look. "S-Sorry," Arthur mumbled, buttoning up the shirt reluctantly, wishing he could see that chest just a little longer…_

"_Don't be," his response makes Arthur's mind churn with confusion, but a tie is soon thrust into his hands. "Can you do this for me, too?"_

"_Honestly," Arthur growls, but agrees. As he loops the tie, he thinks back. How long had he found Alfred attractive for? It would be two years now, halfway to three, the half-birthday of the day they first met. He is watching Alfred's lips move, but he hears no sound, which he is rather thankful for. Rather, he is imagining what it must be like to silence the American with a swift kiss to knock him off his feet._

"_Arthur? Are you alright? You keep staring."_

_Arthur takes a shaky breath as he tightens the tie around Alfred's neck. His grip does not leave the patterned thing, holding it strong enough that not even Alfred could escape. "You know what?" Taking a chance is better than nothing. "No." He shoves Alfred back against the closest wall and smashes their lips together, invades that soft, wet mouth with his tongue and finds, with delight, that Alfred is all but willing to comply…_

He slides his shoes on and heads towards the door as his watch goes off. A sleek black car pulls up to the curb, opens its door for him as he approaches. The inside is a cool gray, detached and empty, the plush leather cool against his body. Arthur shivers both internally and externally. The driver asks him if he'd like him to turn the A/C off, but the Brit politely declines.

"_Which color do you like?" Arthur stands back to get a good look of the few patches of color on the walls. He squints, before pointing at the color in the middle. A gentle baby blue. Alfred turns to face him and scrunches up his nose. "…Really?"_

"_What?" Arthur glares at him. "You asked which one __**I**__ liked."_

"_That doesn't mean I have to agree with your choice in colors."_

"_Well, then," Arthur turns to grab the few cans of paint and brushes, back turned to the American. "Choose whichever color you prefer." A pair of strong arms wraps around his body._

"_Why do you like it?" he whispers into the shell of Arthur's ear. "Convince me."_

_Arthur twists about in the hug, shoving him back slightly, until he manages to escape from the tight hold. "For one," he begins, narrowing his eyes. "It's the color of the sky. And two…" he slowly pulls Alfred's glasses from the bridge of his nose, tossing them behind him carelessly. "…it's the color of your eyes, and __**damn**__, do I love them."_

_That night, when the walls are painted baby blue and they lay on the tarps, exhausted and covered in paint, Alfred breathlessly replies, "I have to agree. The color is nice in this room." His grin is wide as ever._

Arthur blinks slowly. 'Not even halfway there,' he watches the trees pass by out the window—green trees with green leaves and dark brown bark, swaying with the gentle touch of the window on the summer's day. 'So close to his birthday, too…'

_Arthur shudders, shaking his head, huddled in the blankets of the bed. Alfred sits next to him, holding him tight, is trying to soothe him. "Sh, hey now," he presses his forehead against Arthur's temple, nuzzles sweetly against the side of his face. "Arthur, it'll be alright…"_

"_No, it won't," he hisses. "Why didn't you tell me this __**before**__?! No wonder you were tired, n-no wonder you got bruised so easily last night—!" He rubs at his face desperately, biting his lip. "Leukemia…you're fucking kidding me…!"_

"_Sh," Alfred tries to hush him again, holding him closer to himself._

"_You don't even fit in the age group, or the race! I…the doctor got it wrong!"_

"_He said that they're just generalizations, that no one really knows…it could be anyone, and besides…I'm male, too. They're risk factors, not preventatives…"_

"_Oh, Alfred," he buries his face in the broad shoulder of his partner, sniffles quietly, shakes violently. "You should be the one crying!" Arthur's fists smack his back gently several times, careful now that he believes Alfred can be broken easily. Alfred only holds him tighter, understands, frowns against the curve of Arthur' neck. And Arthur can feel it there, knows it's there, will always remember how it feels to have Alfred frowning against you, while trying to make you smile._

_In the next few months, Arthur would be by Alfred's side whenever he could be. There was no chance he could risk not being there, when Alfred could die at any moment. He remembers this as the worst time for Alfred, who was always strong and unbreakable._

_Sometimes he didn't even look like Alfred. Sometimes he wouldn't act like Alfred. He was too miserable._

_Alfred was human, after all._

_And Arthur wanted to be the strong one. He held his hand through it all, and would refuse to let go quite often (which proved to annoy the doctor, but amused Alfred quite a bit). When Alfred's parents were unable to make it for the weekend, too swamped with work, Arthur would be there to tell him that his parents loved him, that __**he**__ loved him, and that everything would be alright. When they came in for the weekend, he'd do the same thing, over and over again, smiling all the while._

_On occasion, friends would visit. Matthew would visit the most often, taking along a few of his own friends—there, the blue eyes would be upon him once again, watching him, thought flitting back to Alfred just as often. They were filled with two different forms of worry. The owner of these blue eyes would always leave roses, smile charmingly at Alfred and delight them, distract them from the dead part of Alfred's eyes. Anything was appreciated, that would stop them from looking directly into the eyes of the half-dead man._

_When he was alone, he'd force back his tears and stand tall, if only for Alfred, who needed him, who loved him and wanted desperately for him to not worry, to not cry, and most importantly to actually listen to what he's asked Arthur for once in his life._

_Chemotherapy had to be started immediately._

_The first bad side-effects come quickly enough. Alfred is always retching, always pale, always with a receptacle in reach. It's a painful thing to watch, like watching the strongest man you've ever known being ripped apart by wolves, slowly, so that you can see every little motion made, all the blood flowing out, all the tendons and fats separating, so that you can see it all and see it with astonishing and sickening slowness, hitting you faster than a rattlesnake deals out its deadly bites._

_Yet he still smiles._

_Through it all, Alfred smiles. A broken, sad smile, yes—but he's still smiling, no matter how sick, pale and miserable he may look. It gives Arthur some hope, against the terrible prognosis. He refuses to believe the short time he supposedly has left with Alfred._

_But something…something tells him Alfred knows. 'And he won't tell me,' Arthur sighs. He won't bother with this. Not right now, not when he's needed._

_Next, there is hair loss. While Alfred does not lose all of his hair, patches of it in the back fell out like thick clumps of tangled old cat fur. Arthur remembers running his hands through and pulling from the golden river a clump of dark wheat hair. His mouth had fallen open, and he was sure he'd gasped or made some loud exclamation, because Alfred tried to comfort him._

"_Sh," he shushed him, "sh, it's fine, Arthur. I'm fine." Alfred smiles a weak, broken smile. Defeated, but acceptance. He has embraced his fate. "It's just hair, Arthur. It'll grow back."_

_And Arthur was a fool for sitting down, nodding his head gently and pursing his lips. "Yes…yes, I suppose you're right. It will grow back." Arthur tousles Alfred's hair with a touch far gentler than he'd normally use when teasing Alfred's hair. He gets the same frail, exhausted smile in response._

_It never did grow back, Alfred's hair._

Arthur steps out of the car when it pulls up to his destination. The sound of the door slamming shut makes him flinch. All around him, it is quiet. He walks through the peaceful silence of the grounds, bright flowers, and a pond with a pretty fountain in the center, willow trees all around the green grass. Cattails sway in the wind as well, Canada geese swimming in the no-doubt-cool water.

The door to the funeral home shows the grieving family inside.

Women cry into tissues and handkerchiefs, their husbands or partners close by, lips set into grim lines. When Arthur opens the door to join them, Alfred's mother rushes forward to embrace him, sneaking from out of her husband's grasp. She had always been a friendly, welcoming person. He hated to see her so broken up—her smile, just like Alfred's, was gone.

It takes an hour for all of the guests to arrive. The entirety of Alfred's old college seems to have shown up. Matthew looks like he has been crying, but he remains stiff, holding the flowers he brought—being related to Alfred, and simply being close friends, Arthur can understand. Everyone has gathered in the parlor for the viewing, looking in Alfred' casket; the mortician did a splendid job of hiding what Alfred had really looked like at his time of death.

Just thinking about it made Arthur's heart sting. As he looked upon the American's stiff body, he bit his lip and forced himself not to cry, not to think about it. Alfred, while colored slightly due to the mortician's work, was still dead. He still looked pale and still felt cold (and still wore his beloved bomber jacket), still did not react to Arthur's gentle caress on his hand, something that Alfred would always smile at. But what did he expect? For him to just get up "I'm alive, everyone! Don't cry, I'm here, it'll be okay!"?

"What a fool I've been."

The family is the first to deliver their speeches. They talk mostly of what it was like when Alfred was growing up, how excellent of a person he was, how _perfect_ he had been. Most people are laughing once in a while. When Matthew has left the podium, dabbing at his eyes after talking about his best and worst experiences with Alfred, Arthur takes a deep breath and stands, walking up to the podium.

Blue eyes are upon him once again, as they always have been, not once darting away this time. And still, he does not feel their presence.

"To be honest…I dreaded writing this. I didn't know what to say." He took a long pause, looking about the crowd who watched him intently. "What _should_ I say, really? I guess...I guess I should tell you that he was smiling through it all." People seemed comforted when hearing this. "Alfred never once stopped smiling; even when I couldn't be strong enough to smile for him…I wish I had been strong enough for him. Maybe it would have made a difference? I'm not quite sure."

They looked ready to cry again. He sighed shakily and continued, "Alfred and I first met in Study Hall, four years ago junior year, in high school. He liked to tell people everything about how we met." With a flimsy smile, he had them smiling back, even if they were dabbing at their eyes. "It was two years ago that he moved in with me. God, those were the happiest years of my life... I remember when we painted our room together. We were trying to decide between blue, yellow or green for the wall color; we spent a long time trying to decide between the two. I wanted blue - Alfred asked me why. And I told him, 'It's the color of your eyes'. He agreed after that." A quiet laugh, like a murmur among the silent crowds at a horrifying scene, floats forward. Arthur laughs under his breath as well; looking down at his hands, and continues.

"Now? Alfred's d—passed away…God, do I miss him," his voice shakes violently. "Not a day goes by where I don't think of him. The world is a horribly cold place without him, moving slowly like a stagnant stream, in which we stop, thinking about him, and carry on slower than before from the pain of recollection. But...I believe we should take something away from this."

People are waiting for him as he pauses, mouth open, stammering silently. Arthur closes his mouth and shuts his eyes, continuing, "Alfred shouldn't have gone without teaching the people he's pulled into his heart _something_. He was too great a person to be forgotten. So if there's one thing I know…it's that I'll miss you, Alfred…" Arthur walks over to the casket just a foot or so away, looks at the cold body of his dead lover, leans forward. Gently, he kisses Alfred one last time, running a hand through that golden hair, whimpering quiet enough that only Alfred would ever hear, if he could. "…I loved you, Alfred F. Jones."

He sits back down in his seat among the family. Friends stand to say a few words of respect, laying things in Alfred's casket so that he may be buried with them. When all has been done, they are directed outside for the rest of the funeral, where Alfred will be buried, following the glossy white casket as it is carried through the door.

People continue talking. They say prayers; cling to one another, clustered about the hole that Alfred will be lowered into. While people say their last, Arthur closes his eyes. The pair of blue eyes takes its opportunity to watch him.

"_He won't last much longer. He isn't responding well to CHOP. Please, Mr. Kirkland…say your last."_

_He walks into that white room, stands near Alfred's bed after sliding off his coat and tossing it carelessly on the chair. "Alfred," he whimpers. "Alfred, Alfred…"_

_Sky blue eyes, watery and blank, open. A faint, sad smile is cast his way. "Arthur, please…lay down with me." He pats the side of the bed where the medication is not dangling above. Arthur complies, resting on his side and facing Alfred. The American suddenly curls onto his side and against Arthur, tucked under his chin, shaking, clinging to him with a weak grip._

"_Alfred?" Arthur hesitantly wraps his arms around Alfred pets the back of his spotting head, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Alfred, what's wrong?"_

"_I don't want to do this anymore," he sobs, wetness gathering on Arthur collar bone, soaked through his sweater. "I want to die."_

"_Alfred, d-don't—don't say that!"_

"_I just want to die…please…I just want to die…please…"_

"_No," Arthur holds him tighter, refuses to relent his grip. "No! You can…y-you can make it through this! Come on, Alfred, come on! Please, don't say that!" His voice holds a tone of desperation neither has ever heard._

"_Please, I just want to die…Arthur, I'm tired. I'm tired of this. Please, I just want to die," he raises his head and looks at Arthur directly in the eyes. Arthur gasps. Alfred is like an animated corpse, pale and hollow and far past life. "Arthur, please…let me go. Please."_

_He takes a shuddering breath. "Is this what you want, Alfred?"_

"_Yes."_

_His grip slackens around Alfred's shoulders. "…I'm letting you go, Alfred…I'm letting you go…"_

He snaps back from his reverie as the coffin is lowered slowly into the ground. Tears begin to flow from his eyes, down his cheeks—the first he's cried in three months, since Alfred's official death. He turns his head away and rushes off, over the cemetery yards, until he reaches a tall willow tree, presses himself against it, breathes deeply, frantically, in and out, out and in, sobbing, kicking, screaming until he feels his throat go raw. "Why? God damn it, why?!" He slides his back down the trunk of the tree and sits on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, crying into his hands.

The man with bright blue eyes had seen, and had followed. He kneeled next to him, movement quiet and slow. As he laid a hand on the Brit's shoulder, he spoke, "Arthur? Etes-vous bien?"

Arthur stiffens and looks up at the owner of the voice. "F-Francis," he breathes, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes. "I'm f-fine. Why the hell should _you_ care, anyway?" He and Francis, from the time they ever spoke to one another, argued often. From what Arthur was aware, they were on a mutual level of hate.

Francis shrugs, delicate brows furrowed. "Do you need time alone, or would you like to return to the funeral?"

"I-In a bit."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Arthur sighs shakily. "I-I don't quite feel up to it. I just hate thinking about him, is all I can say about it. It's s-so painful." He presses his lips together. "Th-That's all I'm saying on the subject."

Francis smiles just a bit. "You have always been stubborn, non?" He removes his hand from Arthur's shoulder. It feels cold and bare without its warmth. That hand is offered up. "Come. Shall we return and pay our final respects?"

It takes a moment, with Arthur just staring at the offered hand, before he hesitantly puts his hand on top of it, a small scowl on his face. Francis' hand tightens around his own, tugs him up, and releases it immediately. A methodical control Arthur finds rather peculiar, as if the Frenchman is trying hard to restrain himself. Arthur cannot say he's surprised, but he _is_ curious.

They walk back in a somewhat-comfortable silence. Arthur watches the trees and the flowers, while Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, going unnoticed as he normally does. Once among friends and family again, they separate—Arthur towards the front, Francis with friends in the back.

When it is late in the day and everyone has gone, Arthur heads back towards the car that took him there. He slides in and hates the silence on the long drive home. He walks from the car, through the door, locks it, and has a quick dinner. The table is set for two. Arthur barely touches his food, staring at the empty seat in front of him. He clears the plates, puts them in the dishwasher, heads upstairs and strips from the suit, steps into his pajamas, lies down in the cold, empty bed. Cold and empty like him.

_He holds the limp hand and cries. Alfred is pale, veins visible, eyes trapped shut. His last moments were not painful—Arthur was thankful for that. But he is still gone, still unable to return to him. Arthur holds that lifeless hand and cries all night, cries for something he will never have again._

_There is no warmth left behind._

Every day, for a year, Arthur is alone. Every day, for a year, Arthur visits Alfred's grave. Every day, for a year, Arthur leaves flowers on that grave—red roses, lilies, anemones, primrose, blue salvia, yellow zinnia. Today, in the evening, he brings sweet pea, in numerous colors, laying them down near the grave. "Alfred…" he whispers, and begins to tell Alfred of his day, as he always does, picking at the grass beneath him.

"Pardon?" A smooth, familiar voice calls out. Arthur turns about to face the owner of the voice, and finds Francis, dressed as nicely as ever, holding a bouquet of flowers. "May I lay these down, s'il vous plaît? I do not mean to interrupt your visit."

"It's not a problem," Arthur grunts, standing smoothly and moving aside.

Francis kneels, places the bouquet of chrysanthemums and varying zinnia next to Arthur's own. "Ah, Alfred…La vie est plus sombre sans vous. Se reposer dans la paix, l'ami." He stands at a slow, languid pace, facing Arthur. "How often do you visit?"

"Every day," he admits, ducking his head. "I assume you're the one leaving the flowers every month?"

"That I am," Francis nods his head. "Sometimes Matthew will join me, but I am the one to leave flowers."

Arthur hums in response. There is an awkward silence between the two. His head is ducked, looking at his shoes, with Francis looking at him intently. As always, his gaze is unnoticed.

Francis decides to break the silence. "Arthur?"

"Yes?" Arthur's head snaps up.

"It is getting rather late, and it would be a shame to just…spend the evening alone, as sudden as the request may seem. Would you like to accompany me to dinner? I am more than willing to pay." Francis looks hopeful, almost.

"Oh," Arthur replies dumbly, shaking his head. "I—no, I'd better not. I'll be here for a little while longer."

"I see," Francis' face darkens with disappointment. "Do not stay out too long, Arthur—it will be getting cold soon. Au revoir." He turns on his heel and begins to walk off.

Arthur sighs, sinking down to his knees. His eyes slide shut.

"_Ya know, you should think about other people more often."_

"_What do you mean by __**that**__?!"_

"_I mean," Alfred is smiling a bit, despite the weight of his words. "Never close your doors. Leave your door open for opportunities. Who knows? Maybe something awesome will happen."_

Alfred makes him think back. How many times had he kept his door closed? Often, from what he could remember. And any time he thought back, he stopped to think about everyone that was around him. It wasn't just Alfred's blue eyes that were on him. Those pretty blue eyes, a similar shade, also belonged to someone else. Francis. He had always been watching out for him, admiring him from afar, hadn't he? Whenever he had a problem, Francis seemed concerned as well. And his heart swelled a bit at the thought. Anxiety rushed through him.

'I'm not listening to what Alfred told me…I'm being a hypocrite.'

Arthur stands and begins to run towards the fleeting figure. "Francis! Wait!" The blue-eyed blond turns around, stops walking away.

As Arthur catches up to him, Francis frowns, "What is it, Arthur?"

"About dinner…can I still take you up on that offer?"

Francis' smile is as beautiful as he remembers it to be. Those blue eyes are on him as they always have been; only this time, they are noticed, and are met with a steady green gaze.

"You certainly may." Arthur returns the smile—something he hasn't done in a year now. The use of the muscles in such a fashion feels freeing, if not a bit rusted. They both turn the way they had come, the wind blowing softly, and begin to walk off.

Francis slips his hand around Arthur's. He finds the grip warming, finds himself gripping back a little tighter. They leave the cemetery hand-in-hand, smiling, towards a brighter future.

Together.

---

**Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.**

**-Peter Ustinov**

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Ending Author's Notes

Well...it's not too bad for my first FrUk story. Unfortunately, it doesn't have all that much FrUk in it. Go figure.

The translations could be wrong. Feel free to correct me if they are! (I'm horrible with French, as it turns out.)

**Translations:**

_Etes-vous bien?_ - Are you alright?

_Non?_ - No?

_Pardon?_ - Excuse me?

_S'il vous plaît?_ - Please?

_La vie est plus sombre sans vous. Se reposer dans la paix, mon ami._ - Life is darker without you. Rest in peace, my friend.

_Au revoir._ - Goodbye.

**Floral Symbolism:**

(I thought you'd all like to know what the flowers mean, instead of making you look them up out of curiosity.)

Red Roses - I love you

Lilies - To keep unwanted visitors away

Anemones - Undying love

Primrose - I can't live without you

Blue Salvia - I think of you

Yellow Zinnia - Daily remembrance

Sweet Pea - Goobye, departure, Thank you for a lovely time

Chrysanthemum - You're a wonderful friend

Varied Zinnia - Thinking of an absent friend

**Notes on Leukemia:**

I had decided on one form of leukemia, which is **T-cell prolymphocytic leukemia (T-PLL)**. It's rare, and extremely aggressive. As I researched it, it stated most people diagnosed with it don't live very long after (the prognosis is about 7.5 months, and survival rate is nearly 40%).

**_CHOP_** - A type of drug treatment used in combination with chemotherapy, normally called prednisone, supposedly successful with treatment of T-PLL.

Alright! That should do it. Thank you for reading, have a wonderful day!


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